Page 10 of Connal

He thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. “Very well. I shall cut out your tongue.”

Horrified, Valerie clapped a hand over her mouth, but then saw something like a ghost of a smile on his lips. She scowled at him. “That’s not funny.”

“Truth. Permit me time to seek a better solution.” As a knock sounded on the door Connal rose to his feet. “My seneschal Fletcher shallnae drug nor harm you. Permit him attend to your needs. He shall provide you with food and a chamber where you may bathe and rest.”

Valerie remembered her own emotions whenever someone had reminded her of Dale’s suicide; the laird had the same look on his face. She suddenly became aware of the stickiness of the sea water residue on her skin, wet sand inside her shoes, and an intense exhaustion that dragged at her arms and legs.

She hadn’t mentioned being able to read his mind, if that’s what that had been, while standing with him on the shore. Maybe it had been an audial hallucination, because she couldn’t do it now.

“All right. Thank you,” she said as Fletcher and Meg came into the room. “I’m sorry about all this.”

“’Twasnae your fault, Mistress.” Connal gave his seneschal a strange look, and then said to Meg, “See the lady to a guest chamber.”

Chapter Four

As soon as twilight descended Nyall dismissed the men from the training yard, and glanced at the garrison tower before turning toward the back gates. While Fletcher had been cosseting the female that the laird had brought from the bay, he’d looked in on her from one of the arches. Everything about her appeared wrong, from the thin flimsiness of her strange gown to the finely-made slippers on her feet. She had pierced her ears to wear tiny pearl baubles, something that would inflame any Finfolk male. Her fine blonde hair curled wildly around her face, like that of an infant bairn. She even smelled like a bright spring morning.

The wench might be a noble lady, a courtesan, or an innocent, but all three?

Nyall followed the forest trail to a hidden cove near the water’s edge, and there stopped on one of the flat stones he’d used to cover most of the sandy embankment. Shedding his tunic, boots and all weapons but his dagger, he then waded into the cool water across the pebbled floor of the cove, and swam out to the edge of the willows, where a dark shape moved back and forth under the waves. For two hundred years he had known the Finfolk garrison commander, and still the strange connection they shared surprised him.

Ever he senses when we must meet.

Diving down under the waves being brought in by the tide, Nyall saw Jamaran’s grim face, and gestured for him to join him.

Although like the rest of the clan, Nyall could remain submerged indefinitely without drowning, he did not speak until after they both climbed out of the water. The currents carried voices, and all Finfolk had extremely sensitive ears. When he wanted to have a private conversation with his friend, it had to take place on land.

Over the centuries they had settled on this cove as the most private place to talk.

Nearly as tall as Nyall, Jamaran had the same lean build and tightly-compacted muscles, although his feline features and pale coloring looked foreign even among the Finfolk. A former Norse-enslaved warrior taken from Francia, as a mortal the commander had saved Merrick’s life, nearly at the cost of his own. That the king had saved him by transforming him into an aquatic had puzzled everyone, especially the Finfolk, who almost never changed mortal males into their own kind unless they desired a man as mate.

Merrick had long ago settled the matter by declaring Jamaran to be like a brother born to him. To this day he trusted no one as much as his garrison commander.

“You seconded the king?” Nyall asked as they leaned against the trunks of facing trees, taking care to brace his feet against the thick roots. “Did they settle?”

“Aye, and no.” Jamaran’s violet eyes shifted. “The laird refused to give up the wench. ’Twas something about Lady Joana’s ring, and a vow he made on her dying day. When he said that, the king looked as if your laird had punched him in the gut.”

“Merrick agreed to such?” As he shook his head Nyall crouched down, cradling the back of his neck with his hands. While there had never been a war between the MacMar and the Finfolk, neither side trusted the other. Over the last year the laird’s melancholy had created a rift between him and the king. Fighting over one female would only make matters worse. “Shall he walk again?”

“I cannae say. He hasnae spoken since we returned to the palace. I left him swimming the deep caves where he goes when he wishes solitude. ” Jamaran nudged him with one foot. “He wouldnae do such if he meant break the truce. Nor should he war with the clan over a mortal, lovely or no’.”

“The laird hasnae spoken or walked with your king since Lady Joana died,” Nyall reminded him. “Now when at last he does, he refuses him. I well ken Merrick’s easily-bruised pride. He shallnae permit such go unanswered.”

“My king, he’s no’ the most patient, nor possesses much compassion.” The Finfolk commander reached down and tugged him to his feet. “Yet I ken Merrick’s aware of how Connal suffers. He asks after him whenever I return from the island. I reckon he shall avoid prodding him, at least for now.” He bumped shoulders with him. “Go, find a pretty maid, and spend the night ruining her bed.”

“If only you’d been born female,” Nyall muttered.

Jamaran grinned, transforming his forbidding features with almost blinding beauty. “Ever I say the same of you, Captain.”

Nyall watched his friend dive into the water and swim off toward the Finfolk settlement, wishing not for the first time that he could do the same. Over the centuries he and Jamaran had grown as close as blood-kin brothers, and as such they had both pledged to keep the peace between the Finfolk and the MacMar. Yet as much as they shared in common, they both knew the day might come when the truce would be irrevocably broken. If that ever happened, they would face each other in battle.

Instead of following Jamaran’s advice when he returned to the stronghold, Nyall instead learned where Fletcher had placed the woman, and went to the guest chamber to look in on her. At first he knocked, but when no answer came he slipped inside.

The lady sat curled up by the hearth, Fletcher’s tartan wrapped around her, and appeared to be sleeping. Soundlessly he approached her, inspecting her closely. The seneschal had given her a clean maid’s gown to wear, and her own strange garments now lay draped on a drying rack by the fire. Her small, bare feet protruded from the plaid, and reminded him again of a very young, innocent maiden.

The gleam of Lady Joana’s ring on her finger stopped him in his tracks.

Everyone had loved Connal’s wife. While he generally paid no attention to females, Nyall had at first appreciated the happiness Joana had brought to their laird. No one could doubt Connal’s devotion to her, either, for he had brightened and smiled each time he beheld his lady wife. Indeed, when Shaw had told him Connal had watched from afar as Joana had ended herself, Nyall had been so sickened by her callousness he’d run out of the hall and puked.